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You and I became a feast fit for kings.
Ravenous for each other,
we devoured our own selves—
rotten peaches on the breath
of the Colossus, no room left
for retribution,
for forgiving one another,
much less ourselves.
We stood our sins up
in row, nicknaming each sickness
that led us into each other’s arms.
We made a game of it.
You would hang promises from your teeth,
pretty as life from the noose,
and I would paint my lips
the color of the bruise
in the hopes it would drive you to want me
the same way my crooked soul
wants you.
We were a four course meal,
and I dipped my knuckles
through the thick of you,
licked your softmeats from my hands.
I swallowed you whole, but
you always came back.
Your voice an echo in the hollow
of my stomach, your feet digging
into the back of my throat
when you climbed from my mouth,
still breathing.
Our little feast of kings.
And for all I thought I wore the crown,
still you laid me on the table,
put the apple in my mouth,
took the knife to the soft of my temple,
and oh so sweetly,
broke me down.
FOUR AND TWENTY BLACKBIRDS, by Ashe Vernon (via themaraudersaredead)

(Source: latenightcornerstore)

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